


Short Stories from the Back of My Mind

by twisted_fae



Category: Original Work
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, Short Stories, Short Story, not consistent at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-25 20:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10771950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twisted_fae/pseuds/twisted_fae
Summary: short stories on the spot!





	Short Stories from the Back of My Mind

"Who are you?" I whisper to the figure in the mirror.

"I am you," she replies, "but different. Leaner, taller, smarter . . . Everything you wish you were-"

"You shut your mouth!" I hiss. "Who really are you?!"

"I just told you." She appears bored. "I'm you. Exactly you. Except for a few . . . tweaks." At this, she smiles, showing off rows of sharp teeth. I flinch.

"Why are you here?" I question, placing a hand against the cold glass, fingering it. "Surely you could be in your other world doing whatever."

"True, but I am bored. Besides," she places a hand against mine, rapping her abnormally sharp nails on the glass, "why be bored there when I can have fun here?"

The shades in the room are tightly drawn, giving the silhouette a more ghostly appearance along with the shadows already surrounding the room.

With a wicked smile, the figure lunges at the reflective surface, both arms fully submerged in the glass. Hands wrap around my throat, crushing my wind pipe and therefore my air supply. I choke, gasping, a fish out of water. 

"S-stop!" I try to gasp, but her grip is too strong. I pound my fists against the surface of the mirror, aiming for her face, my face, but it does nothing to deter her. With no other options, I do the only thing I can think of.

I bash my forehead against the mirror, my fists following shortly after.

Glass rains down around me as I collapse in a heap on the floor, shards digging into my forehead and the sides of my hands. I pant heavily, observing the mirror. The woman is gone, a bloody handprint in her place. Most of the glass in the center of the frame is gone, only the surrounding edges remaining. 

"Honey? Are you okay? What happened?" I hear my mother yell as footsteps rush up the stairs. "Oh my God," she whispers as she cradled my bloody face in her hands, crying silently.


End file.
